The Numbers Speak Poem by Lux Bellavora

We are printed
In black ink that stabs their paper-like skin
We are their names
Their souls
A simple row of numbers
Their Identities stolen
Like the lives of so many
Who walk through those gates
Never to forget
The reek of Death’s fingers
Entwined around the souls of each and every
Overlooked Jew and gypsy
Their willpower is shrinking with us
As their strength is used up
And their bellies lay hollow
And we are left to wither away
With the rest of this empty body
To feel the cold
The heat
And the terror of living another day
These corpses
Who are turned
To nothing but a number.